Black Descent
by VioletLocks
Summary: Marius Black may have been disowned by his family, but that doesn't mean he stopped living. Now his youngest eligible heir, Violet, has to deal with her unlikely inheritance and her distant family's old world prejudices, all while coping with a deranged past reaching from the dark to circumvent a hopefully bright future...
1. Chapter 1

I'm standing in a pool of my own blood. Or at least that's what it looks like. Technically that's only partially true. "Is this supposed to happen?" I ask, eyeing the drops falling steadily onto the crimson floor. "I thought the stuff was supposed to dye my hair, not the bath."

"Dork, it will, but the excess has to come out first. How's the tat? I hope the dye doesn't sting." She sounded almost indifferent, but I could tell she was still shocked at the crazy decision I jumped at earlier in the day. In my own defense, it wasn't a hasty choice really. It was something I had been thinking about for a while; the opportunity just hadn't presented itself yet.

"It's fine, Chrissy. Still bleeding, but fine. It doesn't seem the dye is doing anything to it." Thinking about it makes me laugh, "It would only get redder if it did anyway," I tease. The vibrant rose curving down the length of my shoulder blade came out much better than I thought it would. The artist used more shades of reds, crimsons, and even greens than I had even known to exist. But by the time he was done, it came to life. Beautiful in every way, though with the harsh reminder that even something with that much beauty comes with the steady balance of sharp pain.

"I still think you're crazy. What're you going to tell your dad? Won't he flip out?" The way she says it all but confirms she is scared for my life. I shake my head 'no,' knowing full well that she can see my stark silhouette straight through the drapes of the shower curtains. Or at least she should be able to; by the looks of her own silhouette, she's diligently painting her toenails.

"I'm hoping he'll still be yelling at me for the hair dye. '_What a waste of time and money! Did you completely forget what you are? You know my rules! You don't mess around with those stupid muggle chemicals trying to unnecessarily change yourself!_'" I smile. The quip doesn't sidetrack her and I let my mind wander as I again get her full lecture of me being too wild for my strict house rules. She drones to the conclusion that if we're not careful, my dad is going to see her as the perverse and obviously unprincipled muggle that she is. This last statement snaps me back into place. My best friend isn't self-conceited, not by a long shot, but she still wouldn't put herself down, even to highlight somebody else's faults. "Wait. What?" I question, letting the incomprehension remind me that I should really be listening more.

"Ugh. I knew you weren't paying attention. Violet, you know your dad isn't going to let this one slip by. It's a freaking tattoo if you haven't noticed. They're kind of permanent. And you know he's going to ask where it came from. I doubt you'll tell him about that creepy guy and his garage shop" Ok, _now_ she's staring to freak out.

"I know, I know…. And no, I'm not going to tell him, but look, even if he wants to send me straight into the depths of Hades itself, I'm not going to let him think all of these crazy ideas came from you. That's what you're worried about isn't it?" She sarcastically nods. Clearly telling me that she thinks I'm an idiot for not caching on sooner. "I thought so," I reply smiling at the far-fetched idea. Forgetting more reassurances, I drift off in my thoughts again while the last of the soap and hair product trail down the drain.

After that I find myself going over my increasingly insatiable need for more and more body modifications in the last month or so. It seems to be an outlet for my emotions; a stab of emotional pain from a memory can be beaten back with the stab of a piercing needle, just as the insistent beating of my heart rate growing faster in the nightmares I storm out of, can be dulled by the growing heat of a dozen needles gliding in and out of my skin a hundred times per second.

The nightmares themselves don't come from Chrissy at all. Really she's the one that has helped the most at keeping them confined to the night. They all stem from a person I don't want to think about ever again… no matter how tempting those thoughts may be.

As for my father, I love and adore him with all my heart, but he's far too meticulous for his own good and not nearly enough indulgent. I know I shouldn't' think badly of him for it, but it seems to have gotten worse since my mother died, and all of the rigidity is just getting downright annoying, but he would never do any permanent damage to me. Underneath the hard outer shell, he's still just a lonely man trying to take care of his little girl.

My mother, on the other hand, wasn't like him at all; in fact, my parents were near opposites. And by the way he runs his household, I can't tell how my dad _ever_ fell in love with my mom. She would have been breaking his precious rules and running amok left and right. Thinking about her makes me smile. My dad though is still in constant danger of losing control of his emotions when he speaks of my mother. He says we're just the same and he wouldn't change it for the world, but you can tell he still gets annoyed with the rule breaking.

I grab a towel from the wrought-iron stand on the other side of the curtains and start to dry my hair. When I wrap the towel around me and step out of the shower I look around for my tattoo aftercare goo. Chrissy still doesn't approve, but she hands it to me, even unscrewing the cap. As I spread it over my freshly injected ink, I think of how happy I really am of getting the tattoo, no matter what my father thinks. With him it's all about constant control and behaving properly, not to mention his specific rules for me, like _stay true to yourself_, and _no unnecessary morphing… blah blah blah…_ No tattoos indeed. I think it's because of my mother. He couldn't stop her from dying so he's trying to control everything around himself even more.

"I really hope he doesn't make you get rid of it though, it is gorgeous." She says, staring at my raw skin as I shimmy back into my clothes, trying to discreetly stay covered. "There isn't some sort of spell he can use to get it out, is there?" The question comes with renewed concern and curiosity. Being a muggle, Chrissy knows the basics of magic, but doesn't know the details. We made friends early on; before I started attending the Salem Institute of Magic. My parents didn't mind her being a muggle as my grandparents and great grandparents were long-time advocates for muggle rights and interworldly relations. So when we were young, we didn't have much to worry about, especially because we didn't live near any other magic folk.

I wanted a friend who I could be myself with, so I told her everything. How my parents could make things move, disappear, and dance, usually things done for my benefit or pleasure. I even told her about how I could change my appearance at will, though I was still learning to control bits of it. As children we got away with such secrets. But as the years passed, my parents started to catch on and I was banned from telling her anything further. It was only in places like her house, or at an empty park that we could talk privately and freely about it. She still believed though, and I don't think any law enforcement would come to obiliviate her, because as a child, who doesn't believe in magic? Just because she has information that's a bit more accurate shouldn't jeopardize her memory.

"I dont know actually. To be honest I didn't exactly look into it," I say, grimly laughing at the idea of my dad waving a simple charm over my skin and erasing two and a half hours of blissful pain. "But you know, I don't think he would. I mean, I did it because I wanted a mark to remind me of what is my true self, without morphing. That should still be within the _stay true to yourself_ rule, right?" I say it with hope, but obviously not with enough conviction. Chrissy has her eyes trained on me underneath eyebrows as high as a sky scraper. Clearly I'm the only one with that mindset. "Ok, how about this, I just morph to keep it hidden until he gets over the dye, that sound ok?" I ask, knowing that I'll probably forget to do it anyway, but for Chrissy I'll lie to make her feel better. And plus, I'll still tell her what really happens later on anyway.

"I still don't even know how he's going to take the hair dye. Won't he hate that too? I thought that rule was supposed to mean you morphing to whatever you want, but no changing the real you." She says, highlighting the part of the rule that I'm clearly ignoring. "Won't he just argue that you could've had all of this without the dye or needles anyway?"

I know the answer is yes, but I still want to reassure her. "Well... maybe. But I can just say that it's just me morphing. And even if he does find out, I'll just tell him that this way I don't have to morph at all in order to be who I want. Isn't that even better? Who am I if I have to keep changing myself in order to feel right?" It's a good argument, but I know she's still skeptical. In the end we drop the subject knowing that there really wasn't much left to say. Whatever we may have done to my base appearance, there's no going back now. Or at least not without magic. Then again, that's how it is for me with most things...


	2. Chapter 2

I leave Chrissy's house later than usual, and as I walk through the quiet grass fields that separate her house from the outskirts of the suburb, I notice the pink stillness of the sky around me. It was getting towards the end of summer and soon I would be back in Salem, back in the books, and back in the cold New England wind. Even though here in rural California it feels like the middle of nowhere, it's still close enough to civilization that I can take a ride to the coast and enjoy the waves of Santa Monica, the streets of Venice, and the spectacle of Hollywood, never having to worry; here among the muggles it's peaceful. I don't have to worry about classes and deadlines, whether or not I could work a spell or brew a potion, and certainly not about my future in magic. Not that I don't like magic, not at all. But there's something to say about the simplicity of muggle life. I like it. Perhaps that's why my grandparents were so active in their campaign for muggle rights; not just to tolerate and accept others rather than put them down, but to acknowledge the beauty of their lifestyles as well.

Making sure that my hair's completely dry, I put on a baseball cap that I borrowed from Chrissy. I climb the last hill, and half-run my way down the other side, making up for the time spend dawdling at Chrissy's or staring at the sunset. When I open the front door, I notice that the house is darker and quieter than usual. My dad likes classical music, and it's usually playing somewhere in the house...

"There you are." He sighs from behind me. It's a quiet sentence, but I jump. I didn't expect him to come from the study. My mom spent a lot of time there and I'm really the only one who goes in there now to admire her books. I turn around and notice the relief on his face. A questioning look from me prompts him. "It was getting late and I hadn't heard from you since yesterday. You were supposed to send me a note this morning, so when I didn't get any note I started to think something happened to you or the cat. She just came back so I was just about to send another one with her."

"Dad, you worry too much," I say with a smile, completely forgetting why I was bracing myself for this talk. "I was fine, just walking a bit slower today, I guess the beach drained me a bit yesterday." I lie, and look away from him and find my green-eyed Calico coming from behind him in the study. She saunters over to me and I pick her up, returning her purr. "And plus, Flora wouldn't run away with a note, would you pretty girl?" I say, continuing to flaunt attention to her.

"Ok, well now that I know you're ok, do you mind telling me what in Merlin's name happened to your shirt? It looks like you laid down in a puddle of blood." Ah. I didn't even think to borrow one of Chrissy's shirts. Lovely, this one then was stained with dye and actual blood. Not that I wouldn't have tried to wash it out, but I'm no good with muggle soaps, and my wand is useless during the summer when I'm not allowed to use it.

"Oh... my shirt? Well... um... I thought I might try something new and it kind of made a mess... I'm sure I can fix the shirt though, no problem." I say with a smile, hoping against hope that he'll just focus on the clothes. No luck.

"What kind of new thing?" he says skeptically.

Deep breath. There's no sense in lying anyway; he always sees straight through it. "Um... well I was getting kind of tired of always morphing my hair every day... and I can never get the color to stay the same... And by the time I get it right, I forget the next day...so I dyed it." The rush of the last four words spilling out of my mouth probably didn't help the situation. It made me sound guilty. Not to mention it totally contrasted to the chopped part of the sentence before it. Great. I'm screwed.

He gives me a short look of utter confusion before it dawns on him how I must have done it. "Violet Dorea Locks. Did you really dye your hair?!" His voice rises as he snatches off the hat and looks at my falling hair in the last of the fading light stretching through the window. When he sees how vibrant the maroon-like purple really is, he really starts on me, his voice gradually rising with his loss of control. What were you thinking? Or rather, what were you _not_ thinking? Did you forget that you could have done that instantly just by morphing? Why did you have to damage your body like a muggle? I knew this was going to happen! You spend too much time in that muggle club! All they do is focus on sex, alcohol, and drugs! And that boy! I'll bet it was him who first put this idea in your head. Ugh! It better not be permanent! What's next? Are you going to tell m-" his face contorting as I cut him off.

"Dad! It's not completely permanent, it fades over time." I say, holding Flora like a shield. "It was _my_ idea, and I didn't get it from any club! They do not focus on just sex and crap, and they're my friends! And I was thinking that I don't want to have to keep changing myself in order to feel like me. I know being a metamorphmagus means I could have had both of them without the dye and stuff, but it's what I c_hose _for myself. Aren't you always telling me to make my own decisions and stick to them with conviction?!"

Not unlike my father I start with more control than I end with. I have the sense enough to ignore the comment about the guy though; it would only open Pandora's Box for me, and as I focus back on my dad's reaction, I see him thinking hard.

"What do you mean 'could have had _both_ of them'?"

Shit. I told on myself. And now that it's too late, I can clearly see that Chrissy was right and I should have waited till he cooled off to let him know about the tat. Here goes...

"I got a tattoo."

"WHAT?! With needles?!" he practically shouts, except the shock on his face overcomes the anger. "Where? Show me now!"

I reluctantly let Flora go and pull off my outer shirt, leaving the revealing cami underneath. As I turn around I expect more shouting, anger, even disappointment. Something. So the resounding silence that fills the room is unexpected to say the least. I quickly look at him again for some sort of reaction. He's staring at something over my shoulder, thinking about another something a million miles away. Eventually though he comes back to reality and says, "Your mother had a flower tattoo also. I'm not sure if you ever saw it. It was an iris, on her back, like yours. Creamy yellow and blush red. A little smaller though, but just as delicate..." he trails off. And before I can digest what he's said, a serious looking owl rushes through the foyer window.

The post marked 'Andros Locks' falls onto the side table as the owl shakes it loose from the piece of twine that seems to have barely made the journey. My father must have seen the same thing, and he bids me to take the owl, fix him up, and let him rest before he leaves again. As I make my way over to the truly magnificent brown and grey bird staring at me, my dad's eyebrows furrow as he opens his letter. It only takes him a second longer to change his mind, send me to my room, and rush the owl out himself.


	3. Chapter 3

I find myself on a dull and indistinct dance floor watching silently as the young man, handsome in his faded electric blue leather jacket and jeans, makes his way across the pulsating room and over to the muggle girls, at least my age, and each as pretty as the other. I see him start to chat them up with his usual banter about being a secret magician. Sure enough, he starts pulling coins from behind his ear and out of his perfectly wavy chestnut hair. The girls giggle, but look at him in disbelief and share with each other a look of skepticism, almost fear. He's losing these ones fast, and if he really wants them, he'll have to add more charges of magic to the atmosphere. The girls are still laughing at his jokes, but are no more convinced than an atheist of God. He invites them to feel through his hair, his pockets, or any other hiding place they might like to test, suggestively urging them to look for any foreign objects. When they find none he pulls a rose from each sleeve for them. The petals are firm, with a slightly damp look, as though they had just been cut from a freshly dewed morning garden. The girls are shocked and rendered speechless. They're hooked.

Before I can struggle to catch their attention, I feel bonds around me pulling tighter and I lose the sound of the world. Even when I try to yell my pointless warnings, I can't hear a thing. And apparently neither could they. Instead of keeping their suspicion, they follow him into the back of the club as I silently scream at them the stupidity of their choice. Merlin knows what he'll try to convince them to do, but the odds are in his favor. The muggle girls are caught up in his good looks, and forget why they were concerned with him before. His surrounding magic no longer gives them a feeling of unease, especially when he's now actively using it to coerce and manipulate them.

I jar myself awake, and force my mind to not think about him. How he looks, how he smells, and what he feels like underneath wandering hands... stop it! Ugh, he's disgusting... I know this is how he usually operates, but I've been fortunate enough to not know how they story ends. Muggle-baiting is illegal of course, but he never gets caught, and even to those around him it looks fairly innocent. Magician my ass.

It was why we broke up though. I never knew about it, till one of his friends screwed up telling me a lie. It was a big bait that I caught him in too. And as I looked into it more and more, I became aware of all I didn't see before; the easy lies, and subtle disappearances... I was horrified. It was like your beloved dog who would never bark at a passing cat was found to have attacked a baby. I panicked, but didn't turn him in. if my family found out though, I would have been expected to, or they would have. But with influences from the Shacklebolt administration, the American Department tightened up laws, and things were strict. If they found out about how much he was really doing, his punishment would have been more than I could bear. I feel nauseous when I think about him, sure. But I think I still love him. Damn it, I hate that...

Chrissy's knows of course. She's the only one who knows. My dad didn't question the break-up at all. To be honest, I'm not sure if he would know how. But he's been supportive enough, assuming that I was telling the truth about us just drifting apart. And really I'd rather just deal with the nightmares than upset my dad, no matter how rigid he can be.

I will myself out of bed and think about the day before as I shower and gather my things for the day. The color doesn't run in the water as much as I thought it might. The lovely shade of purple wine kept to my hair, and overall, the chat with my dad didn't go over as bad as I thought it would. Not to mention, it was really interesting to know that my mother had a tattoo. I was sure my dad would be shocked by such persons. Some of his family certainly would be. Luckily we don't see them much; it was always mom's family that was the warmer of the two sides, even though mom's work always kept us moving. And since we settled in the United States, dad's family really don't reach out. Not that they ever did to begin with. My great-grandfather Marius was a squib and ever since they found out he was burned from the family, and his descendants considered even less note-worthy. So they know we exist of course, but when asked, I don't think most of them would even see us as worth mentioning. But I don't mind. Most of my cousins are snobs anyway, however few there are, and the ones that sound decent enough I've never met. Even on my mom's side, her only brother died young, and my grandparents didn't have siblings either, so I've always felt like my family was limited to my parents and grandparents.

But who was that letter from? The question and ideas about any possible answers swim in my head as I finish getting dressed and make my way back downstairs for breakfast. Dad's already sitting down to a bowl of cereal and reading the newspaper, Seer's Eye. He quickly scans over a piece about how to tell whether or not your neighbor is trying to break your house's protective charms.

"Morning," he says automatically.

"Good morning," I reply.

After a while he flips the page with a look of superiority. Working for the American Department of Magic and, previously, the British Ministry of Magic, both in charms work, he has rather high standards for anybody dealing with or reviewing charms. His high standards though he didn't pick up on his own, but learned from his dad.

My grandfather, August Locks, was a charms worker himself, though not for any ministry. He did his work 'recreationally' as he likes to tell me, with a knowing wink. I know, however, that he really means 'illegally.' It's never anything dangerous though. And he certainly knows what he's doing. Even now, with a sometimes waning memory, he could still teach my dad a thing or two.

"Ridiculous." My dad says, bringing me back to reality. "Everything they describe in that article is elementary at best. Even with _your_ clumsiness, Violet, you could do better."

"Aw, thanks dad, I can feel the confidence just radiating from you." I say with a sarcastic smile.

He snorts at the insincerity, but smiles. After a second though, the smile fades into a small look of concern. "Maybe I should take you with me."

"Huh?" I pause. Putting down my own bowl. "Take me where?"

"London."

"Why would we go to London?" I ask, slowly returning to my cereal selections.

"The letter I got last night was from my thankfully _distant_ cousin Narcissa. Apparently there was a small discrepancy with somebody's inheritance. It stems back all the way to Phineas Nigellus Black. Let's see... he would be your great-great-great-grandfather. Well, anyway there seems to be some sort of treasure trove that he's left behind that was just found. Though how to divide it up seems to be in great dispute. Fortunately though it came with some guidelines, that the youngest of the _entire_ family share it, so lucky for us, we get to be included in the family squabble, at the very least to concede that we aren't eligible. The only problem is, there's some heavy magic associated with it, and we're not entirely sure yet how it's all going to play out. Seeing as I'm the only one _qualified_ to handle it in the family," he pauses exasperatedly, "I'm going to London to help make sure the charms and such are all handled properly. Most of my family doesn't quite sit very well with the ministry today, and I believe they don't want to involve anybody they can avoid. And even though we may not be eligible for the inheritance, I think I would like to improve ties with _some_ of them..." he trails off; I'm sure thinking about the recent war, and how it ripped so many families apart. Surely even _his_ family might possibly be a bit reluctant enough to disown him completely. And plus, they need him.

"Ok, I get that, but why would I have to go with you? I know I'm not the youngest, and it's not like I'll be of any use. And plus, I'm sixteen, closer to seventeen, really, so I'll be just fine here. Not to mention, I could hang out with Chrissy a bit more before school starts again."

"That's true. But I'm not sure you'd survive my absence, to be honest." He says it with a small joking smile, but I know he's serious. He would drag me to London and not bat an eye at my lost vacation time.

"Ugh. Why can't I just stay here?" I ask dejectedly.

He seems to think about it for a moment. "Well normally I don't think I'd mind, but I don't know how long I'll be gone... though your last year of school isn't far away..." It takes him a minute of careful consideration, but eventually he comes back to life. "Alright, you can stay. But I'm sending for an escort." He says it with the kind of formality that lets me know the terms are absolute. Stay with a babysitter, or trudge across the pond.

It sucks, but I'm sure I could lose an old sitter if I needed to... "Fine." I concede, "I'll stay. But nobody too smelly please."

"Alright," he says, not even bothering to address the gibe. "I think I know of somebody in the office who'd do it: A new guy who needs to do some community service hours in order to stay in his exchange program for the ministry. He's English ironically. But you might get along. I'll owl him now, and then I'll pack up and leave. Hopefully the sooner I get this all over with the sooner we can get back to our own lives." I can tell he's hesitant to go; he's always thought of his family as rude, snobby, and sometimes cruel. But at the same time all I can think about is the guy he's going to hire to watch me. He sounds like some weird old lackey doing service hours, pushing up horn-rimmed glasses, and who's only good for coffee or, more likely, tea. Great.

A few hours go by, and as I'm finishing a few chores in the kitchen, I hear the fire in my dad's office next to the kitchen start to crackle. My dad is already packed, and finds me to say goodbye. He disparate quickly, after informing me that our new guest is dusting himself off in the next room.

I walk into the tidy office with a bit of indignation, not wanting to deal with a kiss-ass for the next few days or possibly weeks. What I end up looking at thought was a young English guy, clean, well-built, and absolutely gorgeous.


	4. Chapter 4

Few days hiatus for final exams...


End file.
